Oh! where is the dwelling in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island!

How oft when the summer-sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a Minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather;
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.
High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,

And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains,
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains,

And glean'd each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping

Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping.

Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit,

The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,

With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,

Stin, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,

And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west may yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest, be brightest in story.
I too shall be gone;-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever.

Now, to establish the author's title to the merit of exquisite simplicity we have only to regret that the producer of such sweet simplicity as the following ballad contains, has not given us many, many more such invaluable examples of this divine peculiarity.

It is not alone in "The Recluse of Inchidony" that a resemblance to Byron may be traced: he evinces a kindred spirit to that of the great author of "Childe Harold," in almost all his poetical writings, though his melancholy was not as deep, or so much steeped in despair as that of the former. Our readers who remember, and there are few who have read "The Siege of Corinth" who will not remember, that beautiful passage commencing, ""Tis midnight on the mountains brown," will not fail to observe a striking similarity to it in the lines below; a

resemblance, albeit, which none can for a moment suppose to wear the most remote appearance of plagiarism, which never can be attributed to Callanan, whose ideas are as fresh as the water in "The thousand wild fountains" which he tells us empty themselves into the lake of "Gougane Barra."

But then will feel
Upon him steal
Their silent sweet reproaches?
Oh! that my soul all free,

From bonds of earth might sever;
Oh! that those isles might be
Her resting place for ever.

And when in secret sighs

The lonely heart is pining.

If we but view those skies

With all their bright host shining,
While sad we gaze

On their mild rays,

They seem like seraphs smiling,
To joys above.

With looks of love,

The weary spirit wiling;

Oh! that my soul all free

From bonds of earth could sever;
Oh! that those isles might be
Her resting place for ever.

An Irishman who is tolerably well acquainted with the character of his countrymen, cannot but observe in the dirge of "O'Sullivan Bear," a most intensely graphic picture of that strong denunciatory power (to use a mild word) for which the Irish have ever been famous, whenever burning injustice roused their passions. The ballad has sufficient attractions to render its presence here desirable.

The sun upon Ivera

No longer shines brightly;

The voice of her music

No longer is sprightly;

No more to her maidens

The light dance is dear,

Since the death of our darling
O'Sullivan Bear.

Scully! thou false one,

You basely betray'd him; In his strong hour of need

When thy right hand should aid him; He fed thee;-he clad thee;

You had all could delight thee; You left him;-you sold him ;May Heaven requite thee!

Scully may all kinds

Of evil attend thee;

On thy dark road of life

May no kind one befriend thee; May fevers long burn thee,

And agues long freeze thee;

May the strong hand of God

In his red anger seize thee.

Had he died calmly,

I would not deplore him,

Or if the wild strife

Of the sea-war closed o'er him;
But with ropes round his white limbs
Through ocean to trail him,
Like a fish after slaughter!—
"Tis therefore I wail him.

Long may the curse

Of his people pursue them;
Scully that sold hin

And soldier that slew him,
One glimpse of Heaven's light

May they see never;
May the hearth-stone of hell

Be their best bed for ever!

In the hole which the vile hands
Of soldiers had made thee,
Unhonoured, unshrouded

And headless they laid thee;

No sigh to regret thee,

No eye to rain o'er thee,

No dirge to lament thee,

No friend to deplore thee."

Dear Lead of my darling

How gory and pale,
These aged eyes see thee

High spiked on their gaol;
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shall grow warm,
Nor that eye e'er catch light:

But the flash of the storm.

A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water,
From the haven of Cork

To Ivera of slaughter,
Since the billows were dyed
With the red wounds of fear,
Of Muiertach Oge,

Our O'Sullivan Bear.

It would appear that among the Irish peasantry, a custom prevailed at dances, and merry makings, in which a young man admiring one of the fair dancers, rose and, offering his glass to the object of his admiration, requested her to drink to him. After a considerable number of refusals, the offer was sometimes accepted, and considered a favourable omen: allusion is made by Callanan to this custom in a choice piece of enthusiastic poetry, which affords another convincing proof of the great and transcendant genius, which could so intimately identify itself with all the minute peculiarities of Irish life. The song bears the name of "The girl I love," and runs thus:

The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall;
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall:
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free :—
Here's a health to that charming maid whoe'er she be!

The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;

Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree;-

Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be!

When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
The barrel is full: but its heart we soon shall see ;-
Come, here's to that charming maid whoe er she be!

Had I the wealth, that props the Saxon's reign;
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me ;-
Here's a health to the maid I love whoe'er she be!

Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day;

Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree;-
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health to thee!

What indeed has Callanan written, which does not bear the impress of elegance, elevated imagination, copious diction, and magical affinity with the very nature of our scenery, and the exact character of our people? Our very hills and valleys, the former with their towering peaks and shadowy hues, in which a dreamy and delicious gloom constitutes a mysterious charm; the latter with their verdant and extensive meads, or heathy wastes which seem as though they were never trodden by human footsteps, appear through the diaphonous medium of this beautiful poetry, in such a way, as we have often ob

served the leaves of an umbrageous tree, overhanging a pellucid stream, reflected on a calm evening in its tranquil waters. The Irishman who reads the poetry of Callanan, must necessarily lay down the volume a more patriotic man; he must also of necessity feel himself incited to increased exertions for the furtherance of his country's good.

The thoughts contained in these lines which we now insert, we might almost fancy to hear escaping from the lips of some poor criminal, in unpremeditated discourse with himself: so natural are the reflections, and so apparently unstudied is the entire soliloquy.

We will wind up our comments on Callanan, with giving our readers an example of his powers as a translator, and also an instance in the poem itself (which was written in Irish.) of the forcible expression, masculine flow of thought, and dramatic character of some of the old Irish manuscripts.

THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVÉ.

How dimn'd is the glory that circled the Gael,
And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail :
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore;

} And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!

Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,

On the land of your fathers at length you are lost;
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains,
And you're doom'ù from your cradles to bondage and chains.

O where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow?

Strong hand in the battle! how weak art thou now;

That heart is now broken that never would quail,

And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail.

Innisfail-the Island of destiny, one of the names of Ireland

Bright shades of our sires! from your home in the skies
O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes!
Proud spirit of Gollam* how red is thy cheek,

For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak!

O'Neil of the Hostages: Con whose high name,
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,

Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep;
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.

In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night;
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light;
For freedom, or valour no more canst thou see,
In the home of the Brave, in the isle of the Free,

Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd,
And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud,
Since first from the Brehon's pure justice you stray'd,
And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made.

We know not our country, so strange is her face;
Her sons once her glory are now her disgrace;
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail,

For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael.

Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer,
Where you waked the wild chace of the wolf and the deer?
Can those dark heights with ramparts all frowning and riven,
Be the hills where your forests way'd brightly in Heaven?

O bondsmen of Egypt! no Moses appears

To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears;
Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh

To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die!

Francis Davis, commonly called the Belfast man, the last of those whom we have selected for notice, has decidedly very many claims on our admiration. Though he may not possess that deep spirit of meditation which belonged to Griffin and Callanan, and though some may consider that he has not that profound knowledge of, taste for, and capacity to treat in all the fulness of sustained narrative, the "grey old legends," and historical land marks of Ireland, in the former of which they have shewn themselves such masters, and in the latter of which they have evinced such extraordinary instances of excelling talent, the indomitable spirit which he shews, the melodious nature of his verse, the felicitous turn of his ideas, and the rich, transcendentally rich fancy which sparkles so brilliantly through his every lay, adequately compensate us for any deficiency which may render him unequal to the others in particular attributes. Not that we would infer that his peculiar beauties are such as to place him on an equality with

Gollamh-A name of Milesius the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O's and Mac's. Nial-of the Nine Hostages, the heroic Monarch of Ireland, in the fourth century— and ancestor of the O'Neil family.

Con Cead Catha-Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the Island in the second century; although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields; his valorous rival, Owen, King of Munster, compelled him to a division of the Kingdom. Brehons-The hereditary Judges of the Irish Septs.